When Wolves March

It began before sunrise.

A shuttered stable near the north quarter lit up in flames hot, fast, wrong. Not a chimney fire. Too clean. Too sudden. The smoke rolled black and fast toward the rooftops, waking the city in choking confusion.

By the time the bell rang, it was already too late.

Two houses beside it caught fire. Inside one, a boy of six and his grandfather were found burned. Three Harkoraal guards who'd been stationed nearby were knifed in their sleep. One was hung from the corner post of the stable, throat cut, his body posed with a white armband tied around his broken wrist.

The symbol was unmistakable.

A single black slash through the cloth.

The True Sons had announced themselves.

Senjar stood in the soot hours later, beside the charred remnants of the boy's home. Ash still drifted in the air like bitter snow.

He said nothing.

Kaelric stood to his right, face like granite. Mara stood on the left, eyes cold, fingers still ink stained from the trade records she'd been reviewing when the fire broke out. Garrin was last to arrive. He knelt near the remnants of the cloth and said only, "Sloppy work. Desperate."

Senjar knelt beside the corpse of the child, wrapped in blankets now but still small. Still curled.

"Did you find them?"

Garrin nodded once. "We followed the one who lit the fire. He ran. We let him lead us to the others. Five men, one woman. All caught."

"Are they alive?" Senjar asked.

"For now."

"Bring them to the public square."

The crowd gathered slowly at first.

By midday, it filled every step, window, and ledge around the market plaza. The burned stable still smoldered in the distance, sending up bitter wisps of smoke that curled around the banners of Harkoraal.

Senjar stood at the high stone platform the same one where the Empire once held tax collections and hangings.

But there would be no ropes today.

Six prisoners were dragged forward by city guards and Harkoraal soldiers alike. Their faces were bruised. Their clothes torn. One bled from the nose. The woman spat at the ground as she was forced to her knees.

Kaelric read the charges aloud.

Murder. Treason. Arson.

When he finished, Senjar stepped forward.

He didn't raise his voice. He didn't need to.

"The True Sons want to burn this city," he said, his voice steady. "They say they fight for Iskorith. But what they fight for is fear. For masters who already abandoned them."

He turned to the woman.

"Why the fire?"

She said nothing.

He turned to the crowd.

"The Empire sent no help. The Governor sent no justice. Only my soldiers died in the forest. Only Harkoraal stood in the ashes. And now,"

He turned back to the six prisoners.

"Now, they want to teach us fear."

He raised one hand.

"Then let them learn the price of fear."

Kaelric stepped forward with a curved Harkoraal blade.

One by one, the six were dragged forward, and before the eyes of the city, executed by blade. No spectacle. No delay.

When the last fell, Senjar looked once more over the crowd.

"You are not prisoners," he said. "You are not Empire. You are ours. You live because we protect you. And we will not tolerate another night like this."

A pause.

"Let it be known the blood of children will not be answered with whispers. Only blood."

He stepped down from the platform. Behind him, the heads of the six were placed on pikes and driven into the burned earth near the remains of the stable.

The pikes still stood outside the stable, their shadows long in the firelight.

But in the eastern wing of the old keep, far from the blood and ash, steel clashed softly.

Gavren Thorne stood bare-chested, his arms scarred and steady. Before him, Senjar moved through drills slow, deliberate strikes. No magic. No fury. Just form and breath.

"Again," Gavren said.

Senjar pivoted, drove a strike forward, stopped just short of Gavren's palm.

The older man didn't flinch. "Too fast. You're using instinct. You're not controlling the force. You're releasing it."

Senjar exhaled. "It feels like it wants out."

"Then chain it."

He stepped behind Senjar and tapped his spine.

"Your mana isn't a sword. It's a spine. It holds you upright. You can't let it drive your arm. You drive it."

Senjar tried again. Slower this time. As he swept the blade across his body, the faint shimmer of mana crackled around his shoulders barely there, like heat above a forge.

Gavren gave a short nod. "That's better."

Senjar turned to him, sweat beading down his brow.

"How long before it stops bursting out?"

"When your will is stronger than your blood."

Senjar sheathed his blade and stepped back, breathing hard. "And if my will fails?"

Gavren's face didn't change. "Then you burn."

Velyra's chamber was small, round, and empty but for her staff, a low cot, and three candles that burned without wind.

Senjar entered, still wearing the sweat of training.

She didn't rise. She didn't need to.

"You came with the scent of blood and steel still on you," she said.

"I want answers," he replied. "Gavren teaches control. But what is this thing in me?"

Velyra looked into the candle flame, then gestured to the stone beside her.

Senjar sat.

"There are two kinds of power, Arl," she said. "The kind that's earned. And the kind that arrives."

"This power… is arrival. Not birth. Not earned. It chose a host."

"Then why me?"

"Because something has broken in the world. And broken things call to broken things."

She reached forward and touched his chest, just over the heart.

"You feel it rise during battle, yes? The more danger, the more chaos… the more your body answers."

Senjar nodded.

She withdrew her hand. "That is not natural mana. It's resonance. The world is full of old currents mana woven into stone, sky, blood. You… are near one of its threads."

Senjar narrowed his eyes. "Can it be cut?"

Velyra smiled faintly. "You can't cut a storm. But you can wear the right armor."

Senjar looked down at his calloused hands.

"And if I fail?"

"Then this city burns," she said.

A pause.

"Or worse it becomes the first place to kneel before something far darker than you."

"Hmmm..."

.....

Garrin burst into the chamber just as the last candle guttered low.

Senjar and Kaelric turned. Mara already stood near the window, sensing the shift in the room before Garrin even spoke.

"The Baron moves," Garrin said, eyes sharp. "His forces left Reldin three nights ago. Two legions, wagons, cavalry. He's heading west."

Senjar stepped forward. "To Valmere's Watch?"

Garrin nodded. "He wants the castle back before we take it. And if he fortifies it, we lose the roads to further west. We will be cornered."

Senjar didn't hesitate.

"Get a rider out to Varrik. No fire signals. No falcons. A single trusted scout with sealed orders."

Kaelric spoke next. "What do you want Varrik to do?"

"Besiege the castle. Take it before the Baron arrives. Burn the gates if he has to. I don't care if he starves them out or breaks the walls he must hold Valmere's Watch."

Kaelric grunted. "Varrik has two thousand, he'll be enough if they move fast."

Senjar turned to Mara. "Prepare two more scrolls. I want one sent with him."

She was already writing.

"And I'm sending him help," Senjar said.

He looked to the side hall, where the mages often trained now. "Fetch Corien. He knows the roads. His wind magic will help them move."

Garrin raised a brow. "He's reckless."

"He's fast," Senjar replied. "And this isn't a duel. It's a race."

Kaelric stepped forward. "And us? We're not just watching the castle burn, are we?"

Senjar looked at him.

"No. Rell returns in a day. When he does, he rides for the tribe and brings back every sword we can spare. I want five thousand here, ready. When the Baron turns east again, we meet him on the open field."

"Full battle?" Mara asked.

"Not just battle," Senjar said. "We strike him before he lays a single stone near that keep."

He turned to Garrin. "How long before the Baron reaches Valmere?"

"Six days," Garrin replied. "Seven if he slows."

Senjar nodded slowly.

"Then we take it in five."

He stepped toward the war map, eyes hard.

"Begin," he said.

"Now."